


Through Thick and Thin

by axelshairrocks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Bisexual John, Case Fic, Doctor John, Doctor John Watson, Drunk John, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hypothermia, John Plays Rugby, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Lisping Sherlock, M/M, Mild Smut, Pining Sherlock, Poor John, Praise Kink, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sick Sherlock, Teenlock, University, ballet!lock, lisp kink, rugby!john, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axelshairrocks/pseuds/axelshairrocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are best mates and have been since forever. One night John crashes at Sherlock's after a rough night at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I guess you'll see from the quality of this, but I'll tell you anyway. I typed this on my iPod so the formatting is terrible, I'm so sorry, but I just had to get this out and I never would have if I didn't now. Some day maybe I'll edit this all, but not today.  
> Oh and this > symbol is just a stand in for tabs once I edit.
> 
> So with out further adieu, "Through Thick and Thin"

>John Hamish Watson, Sherlock's best (and only, really) friend since the last year of grammar school. They were insepretable, and in most cases insufferable, causing numuruse teachers to remove them both from class to sit in the hallway in silence. John Watson with the almost iconic sarcastic smirk or grimace, which is known all too well to Sherlock seeing as it is obviously the only expression that makes Sherlock stop his antics and as johns opinion of the subject. This John, the one and only John Watson, was the very same and exact John Watson sleeping merely inches away from Sherlock.  
>Sherlock was crouched next to the coach watching the boy intentally and flinched at every one of John's mid-sleep twitches, for fear of him waking up to find the amateur detective hovering over him. Sherlock was completely flustered by the entire situation. They had had overnights with each other before, playing John's rediculous video games into all hours of the night or reviewing for this test or that final. However, none of those nights were never quite like this.  
>Harry, John's younger sister, had come out to his mother earlier that evening. Their mom didn't react well, as expected, but their reaction was slightly more dramatic than planned for. Yelling ensued, threats, and an occasional plate or cup thrown, in no ones direction intentionally, but thrown none he less. Harry had had enough of her parents after a while and left, taking up their offer on being able to do she pleases outside of her parents lives. John followed his dear sister out, slamming the door behind him. He planned to stay as far away from his parents for as long as possible.  
>Harry and John buys round of drink after drink after drink at the local pub. Harry cracks jokes, but she only laughs half-heartedly. They continued this together until the waitress turns their next order down, telling them to go home and take an asprin. Harry grimaces at the mention of the word. After paying the bill, Harry calls her girlfriend in order to beg her for Safe passage to a place to stay. As horrified as she was at the sound of Harry's slurring voice and disconnected sentences, she still agreed to letting her stay a few nights and to pick her up.  
>John, however, had just gotten into a huge fight with his girlfriend, Mary Morstan. They had decided the best route to go was to end the relationship and wait till John had matured more. Sherlock and John may have been the power duo all their lives, but John was still ashamed in asking him for such a strange favor. Sherlock hated to be put on the spot, Sherlock hated alcohol for the most part, and Sherlock hated to see John drunk. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Sherlock hated these things all for reason revolving around John. John's family had always had a little bit more of its fair share of problems, they always fought and yelled; often it was due to the drinking his parents did. That's way Sherlock dislikes alcohol. He hates seeing John drunk because he's just resorting to the same brutish techniques of fake release as his parents. Finally he hate surprises not because John once had a horrific surprise party, but that it was necessary for Sherlock to prepare himself before the majority of encounters with John. You see, Sherlock had only realised his attraction to John a few years priar to now. Not even realising that this attraction had developed into feelings until Mary had asked John out for a cup of coffee four or five months ago. But, not even until John came running to Sherlock with a stupid grin on and his flushed cheeks shining a crimson red and babbling on and on about Mary and their endevores; this is when Sherlock realised, noticeable by the awful defeated feeling in his chest, that Sherlock was in love with his only friend.  
>John lay in frount of him, more drunk than Sherlock has ever seen him. John mummbled something about fish and chips and then shifted on the sofa to his side, his face now nearly touching Sherlocks's. Sherlock immediately removed his face with his own florressent blush, to match John's drunken one.  
>John had stumbled into Sherlocks flat at around 2:30 in the morning. He came in shouting "Shurlock, oiii, Shrlock!". Sherlock was working in the kitchen on some foul experiment. He jumped as he heard the mans slurring voice and dropped a rather large pot on his foot in the process.  
>"Ugh, John wha-" he turned to face his stumbling friend, "John are you drunk? Again?!" He said getting progressively louder as the sentence went on.  
>"I wen'out wif 'Arry, she came out tah mum," he slurred  
>"Didn't go to well did it?" Sherlock was still angry, but John needed more comfort than nagging now, so he'd save that for the tomorrow.  
>"Nuh-uh," John recalled the events in his head and immediately tried to shake the out again. "Wanna cupa Shurl," John more announced than asked.  
>"Alright, love go sit on the couch," Sherlock specially reserved terms of endearment for when John was too out of it to notice. Sherlock gave John a little push towards the sofa to remind him where it was. Sherlock grabbed the kettle, sniffing it first to make sure the smell of fermeldahyde was gone, the proceeded making tea for John.  
>By the time the tea had been seeped and poured John was already passed out while sitting straight up. Sherlock carefully carried the tea tray into the living room.  
>"Hey, John," Sherlock whispered and John's eyes fluttered open. "I have your tea."  
>"I don't wanna cup of tea I just wanna normal family," John sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.  
>"You've got Harry though, her alone is better than my family."  
>"You got Mycroft and parents," he put his head in his right hand and looked down to the other fidgeting in his lap.  
>"Now, you know Mycroft doesn't count," he said forcing a chuckle and awkwardly hitting John's shoulder.  
>"Mm, still," John said his eyes staring to droop again.  
>"Hey John, I'm your family too you know," Sherlock said after a few minutes in silence, but by this time John was already fast asleep. Sherlock in an uncharacteristic manner, carefully removed the doctor-in-training's shoes and shifted him into a laying position. A slight blush crept onto Sherlock's face as he watched the pain and worried-ness of his muse's face melt away into the peacefulness of sleep.

>And that's how Sherlock got stuck into his current predicament, unable to pull his gaze away from the sleeping beauty on his couch. He was overwhelmed with the strongest desire to plant his lips straight onto his friend's or even something a little more extreme, but this only crossed his mind briefly.


	2. Pillow Fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal as the last chapter really, I sometime hope to edit this to have better formatting, but for the mean time I have to get it all out. Oh and these ">" are symbols of tabs so when I do get around to the formatting it will be easier.
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos guys!  
> Enjoy!!

>Roughly 2 hours had passed, Sherlock could only briefly tear his body from that sacred spot so close to John. After about 10 minutes of gazing, he had forced himself to continue his experiment that had been started moments before John's drunken arrival. This did not last long. Soon after any distraction had started, it was soon after ended. Sherlock kept returning to the crouching position directly next to the other man's face. After no less than 7 minutes into this endeavor, the only move Sherlock would make was to shift himself into a crisscross applesauce sitting position. They had been about 12 minutes into a new cycle of staring-distractions-staring-distractions.  
>John still tossed or turned every few minutes or so and Sherlock still flinched at every movement. Currently he was laying on his back one hand against his forehead and the other on his stomach. His shirt had risen up, so his tanned hand was touching the considerably paler stomach.  
>Suddenly, Sherlock his decision. Well it may have been completely impulsive, but he acted on it none the less. He reached out his own hand to place on John's face and quickly brushed the doctor's slightly opened lips with his permanently ink stained thumb. Sherlock raised himself to be level with his sleeping muse and slowly moved in, shaking with nerves, staring at his lips as a target for his own to be placed.

>"RING RING RING RINGGGGGG" the loud noise was practically deafening in the near silent room. Sherlock jumped about ten feet in the air and grabbed for his mobile.  
>"Aw fuck, Sherlock? What the hell?" John asked through shut eyes, not daring to open them to the harsh glare of the lights Sherlock had flicked on in his quick dash away to answer the cell. This was in attempt to make a distraction to the cluster of events that had just occurred. Sherlock was already in a conversation with Lestrade in his room when those foul words were shot. Sherlock spent the entire conversation, not at all listening to the words of the man on the other line, but instead plotting and planning any number of lies to make to John. "Oh I was giving you a blanket, I was gonna wash your mug, I dropped my violin bow," He knew none of these were very good. He had to hope that his "flicking on the lights" scheme would have altered the drunken doctor's perception.

>"Mmhm... Yup... Okay... God Lestrade, shut up do you even know what time it is? Yes, I know I don't normally sleep. Well, that's rude... NO! No that is none of your business." Sherlock hung up the phone in a huff, momentary overcome with aggravation with the detective that he forgot that that phone call was a mere stalling tactic to avoid talking to John. 

>"Now that you're done arguing with your little boyfriend, TURN OFF THE LIGHT, YOU TWAT!" Sherlock blushed madly at the false accusation and leaped to hit the light switch. "Thank you."

>"You want an aspirin?" Sherlock asked timidly while brushing his dark curls in back of his head through his long fingers, avoiding the subject at hand altogether. 

>"Please" mumbled John, slightly agitated. 

>"Be right back."

>"Mm," John hummed. He watched Sherlock spin on his toes and prance to the kitchen, through his fingers that were massaging the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding from the massive amount of alcohol in his body. He moved his hand down to his cheek, the same spot he dreamt a hand on. It was a gentle hand, soothing and warm. He could still feel the ghost of the imaginary pressure that had skimmed across his lips. His face heated at the thought of the gentle hand. He could not place whose it was, but it seemed oddly familiar.  
>Sherlock returned with a hot cup of tea and a pill in his hand. He practically tossed them onto the coffee table in front of John with a clink of the saucer. The detective the tossed himself into the armchair close by, his long leg draped over the side. He reached his lanky arm across the room in a lazy and futile effort to reach his fiddle. 

>"What'd Greg want?" John asked inhaling steam from over the top of his cup. Sherlock's blue and purple sock clad foot; despite his nasty habit of always dressing up he had fond a fondness for colourful socks one night while shopping with John; caught the coffee table, giving him the extra boost just needed to wrap his pale fingers around the neck of the instrument. He begin plucking the strings in any which way, while holding the delicate thing haphazardly in his lap. John closed his eyes tight at the noise. "Sherlock!" He shouted, earning a puzzled look from the detective. "Why did Greg call?"

>"Greg?"

>"Yes, Greg."

>"Who's Greg," Sherlock asked. 

>"Who's Greg!?" John repeated incredulously. 

>"Yeah."

>"What do you mean who's Greg? Greg Lestrade? We met him our first year at uni? It was his last year? He works for the Yard? He consults us on particularly hard murder cases? Christ Sherlock, you were just talking to him, how don't you know his name," John ranted in a particularly sarcastic tone. 

>"I must've deleted it," Sherlock answered simply. 

>"Why would you delete someone's name?"

>"I only have so much room," he tapped his head with the newly retrieved bow in his hand. 

>"Well, what's my name?" John inquired, now wondering if his best friend even remembered it, he did call him "doctor" more often than not. 

>"John. John Watson. John Hamish Watson." He replied smugly, with a ting of pink appearing upon his prominent cheekbones.

>"Hell, Sherlock, you even remember my middle name but you don't have the decency to remember Lestrade's first?"

>"W-well," he stammered, blowing his  
nonchalant cover thinking of an excuse. "You're different," was all he came up with. 

>"What do you mean different?" he pondered aloud. 

>"Well for starters, I actually like you," he said with a snarky snort, not emphasizing the words he had so badly wished to emphasize and pass off the true and somewhat childish meaning behind them.

>"Sherlock! He's helped you out a lot, you know. He doesn't have to put you on cases you know?"

>"Like they could figure them out without my help," he replied with a scoff. At this answer John hurled a pillow at his head as had as possible. Sherlock's bow clattered on the floor in a desperate attempt to stop the flying object. But, his resistance was futile and the soft weapon collided with the brunette's face, followed by a loud giggle from the man on the couch. Sherlock lowered his violin to the ground next to the bow and snatched the pillow up. With a leap he smacked the shorter man in the chest with the plush item. John jumped up with a start to leap for his own means of offense, but had momentarily forgotten his handicap, his massive hangover. The pain reliever had not yet taken affect and John groaned with pain with the relapse of nausea that had backlashed on him from his quick movements. Sherlock stopped mid-reload with his hand above his head and pillow dangling in his grip.  
>John dashed to the bathroom as fast as he could, stumbling along the way. His hand slapped over his mouth and face quickly getting paler. His friend was not sure whether or not to help him to his destination. Sherlock lagged behind the ill man in an emotional frenzy, worriedly watching his moves intently. John tripped into the hall bathroom and was shortly followed be harsh retching noises. Sherlock started in his direction slowly and came to the doorway his friend had a few moments before entered.  
>John was panting and gagging over the open toilet. Sherlock's heart sank seeing his adored one in such agony. He cautiously walked over to the blonde man and reached toward his hunched and heaving back. John twitched at the touch and mumbled something incoherent. He crouched on the floor beside his sick friend, turned away to give him a little space and gently started moved his chemically scarred hand up and down the others back.  
>Sherlock remained with the miserable man beside him. He was still heaving over the toilet, slumped against it with his knees on the cold tan tiles. Through the entire endeavor Sherlock's hand steadily moving against his friends back.  
>John begin gasping for breath and whimpering in between his violent gagging.

>"Hey calm down, John," he whispered softly reaching with his free hand to grab a piece of tissue. He turned toward the ill doctor and while still stroking his back gently, reached around him and put the bit of paper in his hand. John took it and wiped his face and blew his nose. He was starting to calm down.  
>Sherlock couldn't resist to slide his hand from the smaller mans back into his soft, golden flecked hair. He ran his fingers through is in a calming way as the receiver began breathing more regulated. John slowly sat back from the bowl and gently placed himself on the floor next to his friend. Sherlock's hand slipped cautiously from his hair and to the ground in between then.

>"You need anything?" he asked quietly turning his head to face the tear streaked one next to him. 

>"That, again," John managed to choke out while wiping the salty tears from his cheeks. Sherlock was momentarily puzzled by the request, but realized its meaning with a blush. John's head now was huddled to his pulled up knees. Sherlock hesitantly raised his right hand toward the other. He placed it in the back of his head with such a gentle caution no one could ever think it was Sherlock Holmes' touch. As his fingers lovingly tangled with the blonde strands, John grew more relaxed. His head begin slowly drifting to the side closer to his friend. His hand went down between them to help his descent and he gently dropped his head into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock hand stopped at the movement and his heart began to pound. A crimson brush grew on his face.

>"I don't want to got home," John whispered hoarsely as a few more tears rolled down his cheek, this time not induced bumpy the vomiting. Sherlock's heart wrenched in pain at the pained words. Sherlock brushed through his hair once more. Desperately trying to plan a better life for his dear and troubled friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not so sure how I feel about the placement of this chapter. I feel like I should have a chapter or so in between this and the last, but this is what came out, I guess.
> 
> Please, tell me what you think!
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos!  
> Enjoy~

>And John didn't go home. He slept on the couch in the living room. He moped around as Sherlock worked on this case or that. He still attended his classes and did his home work, but he spent most of his time with his legs draped over the plush arm of the sofa with a cup of tea in him chest, a book in the air over his face, or his laptop out endlessly scrolling through tumblr. As big of a pain in the ass as Sherlock could be, John barely fought back.

>Three days had passed since John's first night at Sherlock's. Sherlock was out at his Chemistry class and John had just returned from Human Bio to see he was home by him self. It was late January and the whether was terribly fridged and the forecast predicted heavy freezing rain later on. Immediately following entering the flat, he dashed to the large wood and tile fireplace and begain building a fire. His large hands were so cold from the walk home, he had trouble lighting the match. 

>After finally getting the fire to light, the doctor-in-training curled up facing the warm glow. His back was leaned against the lone armchair with cool-grey cushions ontop of a metal frame. John's eyelids slowly began closing over his bright blue eyes and his head grew harder and harder to keep up. The blonde teen fell into a little huddle and asleep by the fireplace, in the dark room.

>John awoke with a start as the door down stairs slammed shut. John rubbed his still groggy eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at the stainless steel watch face on his wrist to see that it was 6:00, about half an hour Sherlock had said he'd be back. John stretched his arms as slow foot steps ascended the stairs, much to slow and heavy to be Sherlock's. When John noticed this, the foot steps were on the final step before the entrance way to the flat and turned his head toward the door and shouted, "Oi, Sherlock?"

>The door swung open revealing 6 feet of drenched detective. His usually bouncy curls were plastered to the sides of his head and seemed to be frozen there. His beloved, long, black coat did not look like it had helped with the rain and was throughy soaked to the point that it dripped icy water droplets onto the hardwood floors. He stood there still clenching the doorknob and leaning on it, struggling to keep a standing position, with a hand seemably 50 shades whiter than his already pale skin. His nose and his cheeks were a dark crimson colour and his bow shaped lips were a shade of purpley-blue.

>John jumped to his feet at the sight of his shivering friend. "Sherlock! How long were you in that rain?" He called. 

>"Shinth clath ended, I thaw the thuthpect for the cath, Thon" he lisped. John's heart gave a small jump. He was walking toward Sherlock arms out reached toward his shoulders. 

>"Jesus, you're soaking wet," he said when he touched them. "You need to get out of these clothes." He demanded beginning to push Sherlock towards the fire. 

>"I-I'm f-fine," he stuttered out through violent shivers, refusing to move. 

>"Sherlock, you look like you're getting hypothermia, you need to get out of your wet clothes and warm up," he said putting his left hand one Sherlock's side and his right on his arm. "Let's go," he said with another push, moving Sherlock hardly a step forward.

>"Thurely I-I do not-t have hypothermia," he struggled to get out. His breathing was getting heavier and he stumbled from the door and grabbed the arm of the couch. 

>"Who do you think the doctor it here, you idiot?" He was growing more and more concerned with Sherlock and the symptoms he was showing. 

>"Doctor in t-training," Sherlock mumbled his retort through his haggered breathing.

> John decided he must resort to force. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him towards the fire. Sherlock struggled against the shorter man, but to his dismay, years of rugby seemed to beat the years of ballet in this situation.

>John pushed Sherlock down to sit in front of the fireplace. As Sherlock struggled to get up John fumbled with rediculous scarf. His hand made contact with the man's face on accident, "God, Sherlock you're freezing," he gasped. 

>Sherlock stopped struggling and touched his own face, "I-I d-don't feel anyfing," he murmered. John grabbed the other man's fridged hand with a shiver. He slipped his index and middle finger on Sherlock's wrist and tested his pulse.

>"Okay," he exhailed, dropping his wrist. "Your pulse is still rapid and rather strong, so you haven't progressed too far," he crouched down in front of the confused detective and reached towards his torso. Sherlock statched John's wrist mid-attempt to get to him. "Get out of this stupid coat Sherlock, NOW," he demanded, breaking free of the grip and grabbing at the coat buttons.

>John began hastily pulling off the taller man's jacket. Sherlock was putting up less of a fight now, but still did not offer much help. His breathing was ragged and his shivering had stopped, whiched worried John for the worse. Sherlock's body had stopped its only natural defense against the cold. The fire was weak now, since John had fallen asleep and was not radiating the amount of heat Sherlock needed. But, John's main concern was removing the freezing, sopping wet clothes from the detective's body before they lowered his body temperature enough to put him into a coma.

>He finally managed to tear the long lanky arms out of the coat jacket. John moved onto tugging at the deep purple, button up shirt out of the waist of Sherlock's dark trousers. He didn't bother undoing the buttons on the blouse, but rather began lifting it up from the bottom in attempt to pull it over Sherlock's head, slowly revealing the delicately sculpted torso, that has probably never seen one drop of sunlight. This was surprisingly difficult, but proved to save at least a little time.

>John's hands were going numb from the contact with the cold clothing, but as he tore the shirt off he felt his body heat up. His face flushed a light red. You'd think that if you knew a guy for fifteen or so years and you were best friends, you'd have seen him without a shirt. There are beach parties and pool parties, there're stall-less locker rooms for physical education, and there are a countless possibilities or combinations over fifteen years that one of these would have roped the boys into. But, Sherlock was different. He always had pressed pants and a freshly ironed shirt. John couldn't remember any outing that Sherlock was apt to go join in on, especially if it had to do with him stripping. So, he was shy John thought, but now he was confused and questioning everything onto how someone how looked like Sherlock could be concerned with how he looks.  
>John shook the thoughts out of his head. He was under a lot of stress now-a-days and it was hard for him to think straight (no pun intended). He fumbled his hands down to wrench off the pointed toed leather shoes and woollen socks. Sherlock's leg twitched as John hesitantly reached forward toward his best friend's crotch. His finger tips gently slipped over the silver button, inches below his belly button. Sherlock snapped quickly to his senses as the shorter man desperately tried to casually undo his pants.

>Sherlock grabbed his hand again. "Juth g-get me a b-blanket, Thon," he murmured. And John looked at him with a little confusion as the man avoided his questioning gaze. John stood up and made his was to the sofa to retrieve the blanket he had been sleeping with. As John did this, Sherlock tried desperately to get his pants off before John turned back around. He clumsily wriggled his legs from the trousers, without standing up, for his legs had fallen asleep long before and surely would not be able to hold him up. When John turned around, Sherlock quickly pulled his legs up to his chest. John tried not to wonder if he was hiding something.

>Sure enough John's suppressed suspicions were right. Sherlock's black, thin, tight boxer-briefs were stretched over a bulge of arousal. Sherlock shifted on the floor uncomfortably. John blushed a little as the thought pushed its way back into his mind. He looked away from Sherlock's pale body and put the blanket around his shoulders.  
>John tossed some more wood and kindling into the fire and quickly rebuilt it. He turned back to Sherlock, who was now without his blanket. John knew the confusion and stubbornness were just symptoms of the insetting hypothermia, but he couldn't help but grow agitated with him. He marched over a firmly replaced the blanket back on his naked friend.

>He looked down at the miserable lump on the floor and tried to think of the steps of emergency protocol for someone with hypothermia. He knew what he had to do, but he wasn't sure if he could go through with doing it.

>John unzipped his jumper and shrugged it off. He pulled at the neck of his stripped t-shirt and pulled it over his head, emerging with ruffled blonde hair messier than he had begun with. Sherlock had looked up from his huddle at the movement and now was flushed for a reason other than the cold. He sighed a deep breath that hitched in the middle and he squirmed some more again, afraid John had noticed. John felt a pull in his lower stomach and tried not to focus to much on it.

>He moved close and knelt on the ground. He started to shiver from the cool air in the room. "Let me in," he said not meeting Sherlock's eyes, he knew that skin to skin contact was the quickest and safest way to warm Sherlock up.

>"I'm f-fine."

>"No you're not," John scoffed.

>"Mmhmm," Sherlock insisted. John grasped Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him in quickly and tight. Their bare chests collided with a shiver down John's back upon the impact of the chilly man. John tugged the blanket around both of them. Sherlock was sent in a position that John's folded leg was in between Sherlock's. Sherlock was confused enough as it was to begin with, but now he was almost certain that his best friend could feel his erection against his leg and he wasn't moving away. Sherlock's unsteady hand shifted, brushing said leg way to obviously, and attempted to hide his embarrassing situation from the other man.

>John's heart began to pound harder as the only remotely warm part of Sherlock pressed into his jean clad leg. John resisted the strange temptation to look down at Sherlock's hard bulge. He felt a fingers tickle his leg and move towards the other's crotch. He heated up immediately at the sensation. He knew he had grown had under his light blue jeans, but tried not to think why.

>He shifted his arms around Sherlock pulling the blanket up over his head and ears like the hood of a jumper, and settled them more naturally, like a hug. One arm around his shoulders, the other weaved through Sherlock's free arm and firmly around his lower back. This pushed the detective's lower torso into the doctor's, hand still obviously groping his own erection. His free arm found its self to rest along John's back. John shivered at every move Sherlock made from the the touch of his cold skin, but he stayed there, willing all his warmth onto the freezing detective. 

>John tried to create friction with his hands on Sherlock's back, still holding him tight afraid he might reexpose himself to the cold room. John's thoughts began to wonder. He hadn't heard Sherlock lisp since the first year or so after they met. He wasn't sure whether or not the pure cold was causing the impediment or if through all the confusion he couldn't focus enough to stop the slurring. His voice had sounded sort of... erotic-no-no-no-what was he thinking this is his best friend he was thinking about. Sure, it may have crossed John's brain once or twice that he might have a small interest in boys, under strict circumstances, not to be matched by any feelings he has for girls, and not, by any means, Sherlock Homes. Anyone under the circumstances they were in would react the same way. John could hear his shallow breathing in his ear, leaving John puzzled at his body's reactions.

>All the fight seemed to leave Sherlock all at once. His stiff muscles and straight and ridged back gave out and relaxed. He let his blanket covered head nod down slowly to rest in the crook of John's neck.

>Exhaustion is one of the main symptoms, thought John. His ever moving hands moved faster along his back. He pulled Sherlock's lower back in forcing his abdomin to keep contact with John's. Sherlock made a small and barely perceptible whimper, but John could've just imagined that. His ridged hand never left its position, shielding the taller man's crotch, not that John kept track of that sort of thing though, right?

>The hand previously stationed on Sherlock's lower back, shifted down towards his leg, surely only for the purpose of warming it up. He began again pumping up and down, this time across Sherlock's thigh. John swore he heard the same little murmur escape from the purple lips next to his ear. 

>As John's hand trickled down, Sherlock's lower body clenched with hopeless anticipation. He tried to ignore the goings on below. He thought of how his body was pressed against his warm best friend, his only friend, his love. Sherlock often thought of how disgusted he was with himself for beig so weak as to fall in love. But, something about John seemed to make this better. He was clever and knew how to get around by himself, yet he was still naïve enough to compliment Sherlock on the simplest of things. John truly was the exception to Sherlock's rule.


	4. Chater Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in so long, you wouldn't believe the last few months I had. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you all for the kudos and stuff I can't believe anyone actually reads this, let alone actually liking it! Enjoy!

>Sherlock had fallen asleep with his cold nose in the crook of John's neck. His core temperature was considerably warmer now and his pulse was beginning to stabilise. John's legs were numb from being squashed under the detective, but he didn't mind it as long as it was for the good of his friend. Well, actually John didn't quite know why he didn't mind. Most boys their age would not particularly enjoy their near naked bodies pressed so close, on top of each other. John loved Sherlock and would do anything for Sherlock, they were like brothers. Sherlock was always the family that he'd never had. But, John had begun to question that all recently. Brothers don't get flustered over the other's bare torso or aroused over the contact of their body. John couldn't keep his feelings straight. When John had been dating Mary, not too long ago, he would have the similar physical reaction. But, when seeing Mike shirtless, he didn't ever feel anything. Nor towards the awkward after rugby huddles the boys always seemed to fall into after a big win in the locker room while changing. John had never had his heart leap so hard for anyone, girl or boy, but something about the way Sherlock had been acting recently that just drove John crazy.  
>He didn't dare move him off his lap. He did make one adjustment though, after the taller man was soundly asleep, John, upon some strange impulse, took Sherlock's hand and held it. This seemed to have mixed intentions, John's subconscious both wanted to grasp the slender hand and weave the chilly fingers with his own, and to quickly and completely nonchalantly study the place in which the hand had been shielding. John was not so curious enough to blatantly state at the sleeping man's left over erection, but the removal of his hand made it surprisingly more evident against his body. The thin underwear did not do a good job at hiding its owner's problem.

>John's eyes began to grow heavier. He tried to shake off his tiredness, but it didn't seem to work. He had been sitting up for much too long and it was hours later than he had planned to go to sleep. John's head came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. His eyelids drooped further and further down until he did could not possibly keep them open. He slipped into sleep against his cold friend.

>When Sherlock awoke he found himself tangled with John on the floor of the living room. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but all he knew was he was naked and John was near naked and they were in a cuddling position. Sherlock's pale face went red. He felt feverish and gross and really could not place what was wrong with him. He knew what happened last night, sure how could he forget it, he is Sherlock Holmes for goodness sakes, but he just was too confused and his thoughts all muddled together.  
>Sherlock did not know how to go about removing himself from John's lazy grasp around him. Why was he even in his underwear? He began to feel trapped by his inability to move. Ever since the kidnapping case Mycroft insisted his participation in, Sherlock couldn't stand tight spaces or the inability to properly use his limbs, it always seemed to inhibit his brain functions. This current situation mixed with lingering fear of the far-off memory, had a strangly negative affect on him. Sherlock felt a seizing in his chest. His breath began to catch in his throat and he couldn't keep his eyes open. They flicked between open and closed, but couldn't tell which was which. Each breath felt like sandpaper scraping against his throat.   
>Sherlock was still having trouble accepting his feelings for John, spending your whole life being told you're a sociopath will do that to you; make you question the most basic of human emotions, love. It just seemed like love was the most complex. His breaths grew quicker and quicker. It was like a six year old on a scooter, attempting to go down hill for the first time, there was no stopping it. He began to feel nauseous.   
>'Human relationships are merely chemical reactions,' stumbled through his mind as he tried to distance himself from the situation.  
The sharp inhalations and shaky exhalations left far too much cold air in his lungs, but far too little at he same time.   
'If you have a reaction, you can never return to your previous state of being'. He pounded it into his head so many times over the past few year.   
The hyperventilating sent him into a sort of coughing fit. He hacked violently and couldnt inhale. This sent him flying violently backwards. His head slammed into the living room floor and John shot awake.

>"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, realising his grip as he sat up. He grabbed Sherlock's head in order to prevent injury. Sherlock's entire body was shaking, twitching, convulsing. John felt the sweat on the back of the man's neck. His body was hot, he had a fever. John was lucky that Sherlock was alive, honestly. His temperature was having a hard time stabilizing after the shock of the freezing rain. 

>"God, John, I'm fine" Sherlock had tried to say, the words familiar in his mouth from his insistence throughout last night, but no words came out. He just laid there gasping for air, his mouth barely forming the shapes of the words. 

>John managed to pull the weak, frail, young man to the couch. Sherlock had at least stopped convulsing, but his breathing was too irregular for John to be convinced of his health. His heaves of hoarse gasps for air were almost terrifying. The mixture of panic attack and coughing, concerned John all the more. John dashed to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, maybe if he calmed his throat, the coughing would stop and his breathing rate could regulate.

>After John left, the haze covering Sherlock's brain seemed to lift a little. He was able to assess his situation. His chest was tight and he could breath very little. He felt some sort of lurking doom in the back of his mind. It pressed against him and he couldn't think of anything else, except he couldn't quite place what it was. The world was collapsing in on him, as if the support beams of his apartment had been snapped and the roof was about to give in. Something horrible was going to happen, he knew it, but at the same time he knew nothing was. He couldn't grasp or place exactly what his feelings were.  
>His body was burning cold. His limbs were numb and he couldn't mover them, but for a completely different reason. He tried to think of something he knew to occupy his rampaging mind. 

>Sherlock knew John and nothing else.

>Sherlock knew his tan hands and the way how his fingers curve when they grasp a mug. He knows the colors of paint he would choose to paint his sandy hair, because Mrs. Hudson force him to come paint shopping with her before he moved in and couldn't help but notice the swatches. He knew the pattern of the creases in his forehead, or the indents that form next to his mouth when we smiled. He had memorized John perfectly. He had documented the man in his brain long before that night. He knew how many jumpers he had and his favorite band, even though he insists he has grown out of them. Sherlock had tried to 'delete' his stash of John trivia, but it seemed impossible.

> John returned to Sherlock with the water in just thirty seconds. He scooped the boys head up with his hand and cradled it in the air in order to pour the liquids into his mouth. 

>Sherlock coughed and grabbed the cup the was being raised to his lips, with both hands. He swallowed the water with a harsh gulping noise. John put the glass down with a clink. He smoothed the dark curls off the man's sweaty forehead, while accessing his temperature. He could breath a little better and had begun to slow his heart rate. 

> John retrieved his navy comforter that was resting on the ground beside the couch. He spread it over the outstretched man.

>Sherlock decided it would be safer to shut his mind of all together. He grasped the covers in his slender hands and curled himself into a ball. He quickly drifted back to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, sorry about the wait. I will try my hardest top get the next chapter up sooner, promise. Thank you so much for the kind words and kudos!  
> Please enjoy this little chapter!

>John was completely terrified of what was happening with Sherlock, that he had completely forgotten his own troubles. He had successfully not thought about his family for a good 12 hours or so. Sherlock had been asleep for a long portion of that time. His brow was still damp with sweat from his fever.  
>John sat by him like a watch dog. He was stationed in a plush red arm chair. He tapped away on his laptop, alternating between blogging and homework. He had a sizable paper due soon, but that really was the least of his worries. He had thought about taking a semester off to get himself re-situated, now that he no longer wanted to live at home. If his mom wanted to lose one child, she was going to have to lose both. There was no way he could forgive her for how she had treated Harry. He figured he could work full time for a semester, in order to save up for an apartment. Sherlock was extremely opposed to this for some reason. He kept insisting on John not having the motivation of restarting school if he left. He kept pushing John to keep up with his studies, the way John usually did to Sherlock when he got stuck in a rut. John was great full for his friend, even though he could be difficult.

>Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness at points, but seemed to have no real sense of himself when he awoke. John dutifully fetched whatever the boy called for.

>'Fish fingers,' he whined at one point.

>'What?' John replied, thoroughly confused because Sherlock had been sleeping for hours at this point.

>'Fish fingers, John, I want fish fingers,' He said emphasizing his request. John snorted at his diction. 

>'Alright, if that's what you want,' he had retorted calmly and proceeded to complete the strange request.

\------

>"John, could you get me some soup!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice course, but still loud nonetheless. 

> "Sure thing, sweetheart!" John called back from the kitchen, mimicking the way their relationship had been playing out the past day. John was definitely playing housewife for the bed-ridden Sherlock. He tended to every whim the boy mentioned. 

>Sherlock had gotten used to the close proximity of John again. But his normally pale face would spark a blazing red at the brushing of hands or even mock pet names.

>Sherlock stretched out from his balled up form, curling his toes, all accompanied with a yawn. He reeled lanky limbs back into his chest. He pulled John's duvet around him again, gathering it in his fists and holding it close to his face. It came close enough to his nose that his nostrils could fill with the scent, without looking too suspicious. He let his eyelids droop close carelessly.

>A faint, familiar pattering could be heard from the kitchen and Sherlock's ears perked the second it started. After the longest 15 seconds of his life he gave up. 

>"JOOOHNN" he shouted with his hoarse voice. A sigh was audible from the doctor's direction. "Oi, come on!" He shouted, much quieter than the first time, not because he was less angry, but because he had strained his throat too much.

>"I said no," John firmly replied, the cell phone buzzing on the counter. The caller ID read "Lestrade" and was vibrating a custom in a series of four pips repeated in time over and over. Sherlock rolled his eyes so dramatically, John could hear it all the way from in front of the stove.

>"You can hang up if you don't like it," he pleaded. "It's for the good of the people John, you cannot possibly turn down whatever little angel is begging Lestrade for my advice," Sherlock whined.

>"Your help? I do believe I remember a particular young woman who greatly appreciated my medical input," John said suavely. Sherlock's face heated up at the memory of a recently (purposefully) widowed woman who flirted an incredible amounts with John. Sherlock still could not decide whether she was kissing up to the wrong person or if she was actually attracted to him. Either way, Sherlock was jealous of her. He wasn't sure why, but it seemed to be along the lines of the fact that she could openly express the feelings she had for John with so much more confidence than Sherlock would ever be able to do.

>"I'm sure Lestrade is calling for your help on my phone, when you've got your own in your left front pocket, along with 35 pence, and a receipt for a medium tea from the coffee shop with the snowflake decorations on the way to Bart's for here," Sherlock deduced to distract both him and John from the red creeping up his neck from below the collar of the blue jumper he was wearing that he had borrowed from John. John removed the contents of his pocket and his mouth dropped open.

>"Honestly, Sherlock, how did you do that?" John gaped. Sherlock could not figure out why John was constantly surprised by his deductions, but the reaction never failed to flatter him. The phone had stopped vibrating by now, but neither of them doubted the fact it would begin again in a few moments. 

>"You usually keep your phone in that pocket, that was easy. You bought milk this morning when I wanted tea. You checked how much cash you had, assuming the price of milk hadn't changed since the last time I went out, 35 pence would be your change. And you brought a medium cup home from that shop home last Tuesday. Judging by the fit of the jeans now," he glanced down the length of John's legs for emphasis. "the elastic in the fabric is sagging slightly, they haven't washed them recently. I assumed you didn't empty your pockets, that's just your normal behaviour," he concluded. 

>"Quit being such a show off," John laughed. He replaced the contents back into his pocket. Sherlock blew his nose so loudly that John couldn't help to laugh at him. The phone began going off again and John eyes it out of the corner of his eye. The white letters spelt out "Lestrade" once again. 

>Sherlock could see his eyes linger on the screen one or two seconds too long. Sherlock could tell that the other man wanted to answer it. He knew John couldn't resist the thrill of tracking down an enemy. He loved danger, even if he didn't want to admit it. That's why he played rugby, it's pure adrenaline and that's what John lived for. He wanted to be a physician, but sherlock could tell that he'd much rather a more thrilling job such as a coroner or a type of forensics expert. Maybe he would adopt the term "consulting doctor" at some point. Another thing Sherlock could never understand were the girls John dated. They were all bland and boring. At least Mary had some substance to her, she teased Sherlock in a friendly way and they got on well when he wasn't too self-absorbed in revenge plotting for selling away his precious time with John. 

>John's fingers slid over the phone and brought it toward his ear. "Hullo?" He stated more than inquired.

>"Hi, John? We've got a real strange murder here," announced the man on the other end. "We could really use Sherlock's help, if you could fetch him."

>"He's sick Greg," he exhaled. "From trying to catch one of your suspects."

>"He knows he's supposed to call," Lestrade answered, John could hear him shaking his head. "Could you just ask him about it? Maybe he can do some bed-ridden detectiving?"

>"Lestrade, save me, please," Sherlock whined from the living room. John snorted a laugh, he tried so hard to hold in. Laughing only ever encouraged Sherlock, much like when a little kid continues swearing because adults would laugh before scolding them.

>"So, there's a married couple in Regent's park eating a picnic lunch in the middle of lunch. After the park closes, they're both is found dead by cleaning staff. There are no witnesses or suspects, that we can find, " Lestrade finished, and John tried his best to not be intrigued. He turned ever so slightly away from Sherlock in order to hide his face just enough so he couldn't guess what he was thinking. Of course, by noticing the doctor hiding his face the detective was able to tell that John was interested. 

>"We're not interested, sorry, " John replied.

>"You're flat out lying, John. Even a child could see that you wanna know the cause and time of death," Sherlock clipped. Sherlock wrapped himself in his blankets, because he still had not put on clothes, having only gotten up once too use the bathroom, he didn't feel a particular need to. He moved in a huddle towards the kitchen, making his way towards John to get the phone.

>"Sherlock, lay down," John hissed, covering the receiver. Lestrade could still be heard mumbling from the other end. 

>"No, I just want to take the case, I'm so bored, John," he sniffled, hobbling toward John.

>"Go, Sherlock."

>"No."

>"Come on, you're sick." John had a familiar sort of feeling about the argument happening.

>"I'm well enough to work on a case," he insisted. 

>"Liar."

>"You're the one lying to Lestrade just a minute ago."

>"You're impossible," John exhaled. 

>"I know."

>"Fine, we'll take the case, " John sighed into the mobile. "One condition, though, if he gets any worse, then you're the one who's going to hand feed him soup," John replied sounding completely seriously.

>"Deal," Lestrade replied. John could hear Sherlock plop back onto the couch.


End file.
